Missed Calls
by FlewandFlied
Summary: Its been months since the fall. John has to get on with life but it's hard with constant reminders. Something - or someone - is in the way. Any guesses?


_**Note: I obviously don't own the characters of John and Sherlock. This is my first Sherlock Fanfiction so be nice (that's all I ask!) I'm sorry it's short but I have no idea what to do next. If you have advice then I need to hear it **___

The phone had vibrated consistently for weeks now, so much so that John started to wonder whether it had acquired a certain determination in its mission to annoy him. Like he did every day when his alarm lifted him from a restless sleep, he turned to find 16 missed calls. He didn't bother checking who they were from. It was the same every time.

"No. No. No. No. No" He cried, his voice escalating in to a weak shout. Without thinking, he slid the already scratched mobile across the creaky floorboards. It eventually skidded to a stop just inches from the skirting board. To most people this would be lucky, a blessing. Not now; John wanted the constant reminders to stop. Any way to destroy the life from the plastic cased soulless personal piece of hell would be welcomed.

Not bothering to retrieve the indestructible gadget from the floor, John yanked the same old T-shirt from the draw that was already open and swung open the door. Hearing the familiar buzz of the ancient TV that Mrs Hudson refused to accept was on its last leg, he grabbed the banister to steady him and headed downstairs.

"Come on, anyone would know this, its basic history!"

A voice came from behind the glass door of 221A – this was Mrs Hudson at her loudest, when her daily doses of daytime quiz shows were at their climax. Despite the familiarity of the slight yell aimed at the telly, John still shuddered at the alight aggression of the tone. Every single inch of fearlessness that his career had transplanted in to him had dwindled away after that night, so much so that even Mrs Hudson caused a hint of alarm that got his pulse racing. Images and sounds of gun shots were now erased, now redundant, after being replaced by constant reminders of falling. Falling. Something everyone starts life fearing. Something that John had started fearing once more.

Cracking his knuckles, he stepped an inch closer to the door to open it. Once inside, John wiped his feet (a custom he had adopted since the snow had arrived in London over the winter). He knew that he no longer had to knock, in fact, he'd never felt so at home in Baker Street. At least, not for a while. Clearly not wanting to tear her attention away from the tense final round, Mrs Hudson did not even greet John as he walked through her living room. Eventually, he received a nod in his direction, after which he turned to flick on the kettle for the first of many mugs of tea. This was something he was accustomed to but was no longer essential; for so long, he had relied on Mr's Hudson's kitchen because of the scientific equipment plaguing his. However, now it was less necessary and more for comfort. It was nice to have some kind of routine.

As the TV launched in to a 3 minute long symphony of jingles and adverts, Mrs Hudson came to join John in the slightly outdated yet sparkling clean kitchen. She moved with a casual elegance, and settled next to the worktop, with her hand cupping her chin. Her eyes were soft and calm. She was the one person that was always willing to listen, always concerned.

"I tell you now John. That man, you know, the one that was on last week that gambled and only won a teapot? Well, he was on the front page of the local paper. He sued the TV people. It's a shame really."

Amazed at how easily it was to entertain his landlady, John smiled (with his lips, but not with his eyes) and turned his attention to the Kettle, which was now spurting out steam, begging for attention. As nice as she was, Mrs Hudson constantly reminded John of him. How he would smirk at remarks made about Countdown, how even he wouldn't dare change the channel during 'Come Dine With Me'. At the time, these little things were blanked out (there's only so much smut a person can take) but now John could think of nothing else. His mind was a dull fog filled with glimmers of sun that were Sherlock.

Sherlock. The cause of the vibrating phone. The Mystery that solved Mysteries.

_**I hoped you liked it, thank you for reading: more will hopefully be on the way.**_


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